


Tumblr Prompts

by anonstarbuck



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut, Tumblr, Unresolved Sexual Tension, msr fanfic, msr fanfiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 18,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonstarbuck/pseuds/anonstarbuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hogwash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please shut up. I can’t stand how appealing your voice is.”

It had been one of those cases in which they just hadn’t been able to see eye to eye. To the point where Scully hadn’t even tried to hide her eye-rolling as he went on about ectoplasm, mediums and poltergeists. Or as she liked to categorise them: green jello, hacks and bored teenagers.  
  
Despite their constant disagreement they both admitted to the fact that it had been an entertaining case, that their reports would once again be exponentially different and that Mulder owed Scully for another pair of perfectly good shoes ruined by exposure to some disgusting substance.  
  
They were both sitting in the well-worn couch at Hegal place. Their coats draped over chairs near the entrance. He had changed out of his work clothes into well-worn jeans and a grey shirt, and she had caught herself admiring the back of him as he bent over to get beers from the refrigerator.  
  
But now the coffee table is covered with empty bottles, and through the sluggish feeling of mild inebriation, Scully wonders why on earth Mulder has so much alcohol in his apartment. “Mulder, “ she asks, slurring slightly, “where you planning a party?”  
  
He smiles to himself as he takes another long swig of his beer. “I used to be an Indian Guide, Scully. I’m always prepared.” Rather than retort, she finishes her drink, sets it down, and tucks her legs underneath herself. He stares at her stockinged legs and wonders what her skin must feel like underneath the flesh-coloured fabric.  
  
“You still believe that medium was the real thing, don’t you.” she states rather than asks, knowing full well that Clyde Bruckman cancelled out the fraudulent  Stupendous Yeti in his book.

“There have been documentation of mediums for years and years, Scully.” he says flushed. The alcohol lowering the pitch of his voice to a sultry baritone. Even in the Bible, the Old Testament has the prophet Samuel, that consulted his former mentor about a battle. There’s been a myriad of cases in the 19th century, and there are even some scientists that have studied spiritualism and have become converted. Even Pierre Curie, who was a Nobel laureate. And Arthur Conan Doyle, who, I shouldn’t have to remind you, was a physician besides being a writer. I have no doubt that the mind can access portals of communication that we can’t even begin to understand. That perhaps there are different dimensions, and that certain individuals can access a trancelike state in which they can become portals to these dimensions.”

Scully listens patiently, paying more attention to the rich velvety quality of his voice. It makes her think of honey and molasses. She squeezes her thighs to relieve some of the pressure and heat that she suddenly feels between her legs. Mostly, she wonders what his voice sounds like when he orgasms. She decides that she wants to find out.    
  
He keeps going on about rasping noises, telekineses and spirit manifestations until in a sudden surge of alcoholic courage she says, “Please shut up, Mulder.…I just….I can’t stand how appealing your voice is. Even if what’s coming out of it is absolute hogwash.”

He stops mid-sentence, more as a result of the second part of her statement than the instruction to stop talking. He studies her face and can’t decide whether the flush on her skin is the effects of beer or arousal. He decides he wants to think it’s the latter.  
  
He shifts until his shoulder is touching hers and leans until his lips are almost touching her ear. _Okobogee,_ he thinks and exhales through his nose, moving the wispy hairs that frame her lobe. “How about now,“ he murmurs softly, trying to fluster her.  
  
The tables turn when Scully twists her head and catches his lips with hers. His eyebrows shoot upwards as her tongue tentatively touches his. She pulls away from him, blushing and out of breath. “Oh. So this is how I get you to shut up.” she marvels, licking her lips.  
  
He looks at her with awe and takes note that 5 is the number of beers that it takes for Scully to lose her inhibitions. He vows never to have less than that in his house.  
  
“No more talk about mediums then, Scully?” he whispers.

  
“No more talk at all, Mulder.” she replies while she leans in to kiss him again.


	2. Bring the Kung Fu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Get your pretty little butt over here."

"All I'm saying is that it's high time the three of you came over to mine for a change. Your place smells like socks and paranoia." Mulder said, holding the receiver between his shoulder and chin while he opened the bottle of fish food. He had somehow managed to kill another molly and he hadn't even been away on a case this time. 

He heard Langly mutter "If you think that this increases your chances of beating us at Kung Fu Space Warfare, you're delusional, man." Mulder tapped at the glass of his fish tank as to signal the swimmers that dinner was served. Byers cleared his throat and admonished, "At least we can order decent Chinese food without creeping out the delivery people."

A familiar gruff snort resounded from the background and Mulder didn't need to see Frohike to know that he was growing impatient. "Forget the food and the Kung Fu. The real question is: Will the scrumptious agent Scully delight us with her presence? We don't mind the odd number and she can always have some of my turns."

Mulder could practically hear Langly roll his eyes before he interrupted, "We DO mind an odd number and she CAN'T have some of your turns because that would mean that kicking your ass will actually be a challenge."

"Don't even go there, you beach-blonde punk. I had the flu that time. Don't listen to him, Mulder. Mop hair thinks he's got a number on me. "

"Guys," Mulder interrupted, "Just come over and bring beer. And don't worry, Frohike. I know you're aching to show off your sweet, sweet moves." he hung up the phone and went into the bedroom to change out of his work clothes. In his boxers he was reaching for some sweatpants when the phone rang again. "What now? Bring your pretty little butts over here, I'm waiting to see what you've got."

There was a paused silence and he thought for a second that the line hadn't connected properly until he heard a hesitant, "Mulder?" 

Shit.

"Scully! Sorry! I thought you were someone else." he tried to sound nonchalant as he grimaced at the thoughts that might be going through her head. He fumbled with the phone as he struggled to put pants on, somehow feeling naked with her on the other line. 

"Hot date, Mulder? Or should I say dates?" He could hear the slight laughter in her voice tinged with something else. He slid the pants on and leaned against the wall, suddenly missing her, despite the fact that he barely knew her. He also had the feeling that Frohike would eventually send her screaming for the door with his advances if they were put in the same room together again. 

"Dates, Scully, plural. A tin man, a scarecrow and a cowardly lion." he traced the wall with his fingers, subconsciously writing her name. Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked, his voice gentle. 

He thought he felt the wheels of her head turning through the holes of the receiver and waited patiently. Her voice sounded small and unsure when she replied simply, "No, I'm sorry. I was just wondering what you were up to."

He closed his eyes and grinned into the speaker like an idiot. "Not much, partner. Just video games and beer with the three stooges of funky poaching."  
Mulder gripped the phone a little tighter and lowered his voice conspiratorially, "You wanna come?"

Another silence. He could hear her soft even breathing.

"What should I bring?" she answered as an acceptance to his invitation. Mulder's eyebrows shot up in surprise and delight. His grin turned into a full fledged smile and tossed the old shirt he was going to put on and went towards the closet to look for a clean one. "Don't worry about it, Scully. The boys are buying." 

He paused and dropped his voice to a low, intimate tone:

"Just bring your pretty little butt over here too."


	3. Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No one needs to know”  
> “Please don’t do this”

They stood outside the store with blackened windows and neon lights. From a distance they just looked like a regular couple having an argument. Their size difference was evident and she was tilting her face up to hiss at him, hands on hips, the flush on her face clashing with her red hair. The look on his face was a mix between cajoling and amused. 

Up close, Mulder and Scully were standing outside a gaudy sex shop in the far end of town.  
She was half-pleading, “I’m just saying that anniversary gifts are supposed to be, I don’t know, a pleasurable experience? Romantic?”

“Hey!” he exclaimed, looking hurt. This IS romantic!“ he lowered his voice to a rolling baritone and murmured “Also, it’s supposed to lead to pleasure…” He stepped closer to her and bent slightly to whisper hotly in her ear “Come on, Scully, It’ll be fun. No one needs to know.” 

He pulled at her hand to lead her inside and she dug her heels against the sidewalk like Queequeg did when he didn’t want to go for walks. “Please don’t do this.” she groaned half-heartedly before finally surrendering to her fate and following Mulder inside.

They were approached by a buxom blonde with knowing green eyes who looked at Mulder and smiled broadly. “Mr. Luder! It’s been too long since we last saw you around here! We have a very updated selection of films we can offer you.” 

Mulder flushed slightly as Scully turned to glare at him. Before she could say anything he stuttered “How long do you think it’s been since I’ve been here?”  
“Oh! Definitely over a year. We thought maybe you’d moved!”  
He looked at Scully pointedly and then said. “We’re just looking around for now, Claire. Thank you.” 

Claire smiled warmly at Scully and informed her, “If you have any questions at all, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” Mulder twirled around with his hands in the air and a gleam in his eye, very much akin to the way children do when visiting toy stores. “Can you believe this place, Scully?” 

Scully sighed and smiled at him. Yes, she absolutely could. So this was the place where Fox Mulder used to get all of those tapes that weren’t his.

He picked up a pair of fluffy purple handcuffs and waggled his eyebrows at her. “How does this strike your fancy? Have you been a good little FBI agent, Scully?”  
She rolled her eyes and retorted “Mulder, both of us have perfectly functional handcuffs, those look like handcuffs for bunnies and just seem ridiculous.”

“True, but ours can be painful.” he added thoughtfully.

She took the time to look at him over her shoulder while she wandered towards the battery operated toys. She caught his eyes and narrowed hers with a slow lick of her lips. She shot back, “Exactly.”

“Scully!” he exhaled with undisguised reverence. Scully caught Claire’s eye, beckoned her over and they whispered briefly before Claire came back with a box. Mulder looked bewildered as the tall blonde patted his shoulder while leading both of them to the cash register. “It’s an excellent choice. "she said to Scully, "I couldn’t have picked something better myself.”

He fumbles for his wallet and pays for the secret item. Claire looks up him grinning from the cash register. “Your partner knows exactly what she’s doing, Mr. Luder. Don’t look so concerned. Girl knows her toys.”

Scully ran her fingers down Mulder’s tie and tugged at the end lightly, pulling him closer “ I thought you’d appreciate a little resistance from my part, but you’re not the only one who’s got game.” She stands on her tiptoes to speak directly into his ear, her breath warm and airy against his hair. “Don’t worry, Mr. Luder, nobody needs to know.”

She walks out with the bag, leaving a shocked Mulder trying to rid himself of the tenting in his pants before joining her outside.


	4. Dinner Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

Mulder grumbled as he stuck his finger into the mashed potatoes. Without turning around, Scully scolded “Do not pick at the food, Mulder, it’s not sanitary.” He grumbled again and shuffled around the kitchen like a caged tiger. Scully rolled her eyes, her back still to him, while she checked on the turkey inside the oven. “If you’re not going to make yourself useful in the kitchen, why don’t you go read or watch TV or something?”

He walked towards her and leaned against the counter watching her slice vegetables with surgical skill. The dexterity of her small hands never ceased to amaze him, both in the kitchen and in the bedroom. He shook his head in amazement and dismay and told her “I seriously can’t believe you talked me into this.” 

Scully smiled to herself and reached for another carrot. “You have to admit, Mulder, that you’re not a difficult man to convince once I get you in the bedroom.” She suppressed a laugh at the memory of her kissing her way south, pausing at sensitive spots on his ribs and hipbones while she murmured the idea to him. He had nodded frantically, barely able to gasp his agreement at whatever it was she was saying.

“Scully, you cheat.” he said with a small pout while he tugged at the straps of her apron. He’d rather spend the evening with her naked than this absurd shindig. She turned to him and kissed his lower lip with a little nibble. He opened her mouth with his tongue and deepened the kiss when the doorbell rang.

Mulder sighed with defeat and Scully squeezed his arm. “I promise we’ll have fun. And if you don’t, which I seriously doubt, I’ll make it up to you later.” she said and grazed the front of his pants lightly with her middle finger. His eyes widened, nodded his head and he trotted to the front door to answer. Byers, Langly, Frohike, Skinner, Doggett and Reyes stood outside in the snow holding bottles of wine, champagne and six packs of beer. 

“Merry Christmas, agent Mulder.” Skinner smiled awkwardly while holding a bottle of scotch as if it were a peace pipe or a sacrificial lamb. “Merry Christmas, sir. Hello guys. Come on in and make yourself at home.” The unlikely lot stomped the snow out of their shoes and made their way into the warmth and light of the unremarkable house.


	5. Just One Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is there a reason why you're naked in my bed?"

Scully towelled her hair dry in the morgue bathroom after a two-hour slice and dice that lead to absolutely nothing conclusive. Once again, she was back in Texas with nothing to find or to report. She wiped the steam off the mirror and looked back at her reflection, slightly pink from the hot water, her face mirrored how much she was looking forward to going back home, where they wouldn’t be on a case and therefore would no longer be sleeping it separate beds. 

They’d only been gone for a few days, but already she missed curling up against him, pressed up for warmth and comfort, both satiated and slightly out of breath after their nightly exertions. Sometimes, like tonight, she cursed herself for being so by-the-book. It’s not like anyone would care if they were consorting in the same room during assignment. Not anymore, anyway.

She put on her coat and checked her phone. A text from Mulder saying he was back at the motel, asking if she had found anything. She put it back in her pocket and tried not to think about how she’d have to let him down easy. No alien DNA, no strange tissue, not an X-file. 

Once there, she killed the engine and looked at their adjacent rooms, both silent and still. Bewildered, she checked her wristwatch. Only a few minutes past 9pm. There was no way Mulder was sleeping this early and without answers. She made her way to his room and gently rapped at the door. “Mulder?” she pressed her ear against the cheap wood and tried to listen for noise. Nothing. A run, probably. She thought to herself as she fiddled with the key to her room. 

She stepped in, taking her coat off, and as she glanced up she suppressed a gasp as she saw a figure silhouetted by the dim light trickling through her window. Reaching for her gun and the light-switch she released a relieved sigh when she realised that it was just Mulder. 

He stared at her, seemingly unabashed by how he had frightened her. Now, thinking sans adrenaline, she noticed that his clothes were folded neatly on a chair. What the hell is he getting at? As if reading her thoughts, he grinned and answered her silent question, “I know you hate it when I leave things scattered on the floor.” 

 

“Is there a reason why you’re naked in my bed?” she asked with a hint of annoyance.

“Well, Scully, if you haven’t had this conversation with your mother, let me take you through it very quickly. There are birds and there are bees and they both do it. Even educated MDs do it.” he responded in a singsongy voice, which heavily contrasted his usual monotone, his grin flirtatious. 

“Agent Mulder, I think you know first-hand that I’ve already had this conversation.” she said while feeling a slow blush creep up her chest. 

“I do indeed, agent. And I love how well-versed you are in the subject. But I get the feeling that you found nothing in your autopsy to prove my theory of something else other than murder. So…case over. We’re no longer on assignment. We’re just two people in good ol’ Texas.” he waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Mulder, you know we can’t.” she whispered softly, feeling the warmth of her blush spread south. 

“I do know. It was worth a try, though.” his voice had dropped an octave and his gaze studied her thoughtfully. “Tell you what, Scully. One kiss. One kiss and I’ll go to my room.” She shifted with the husky rumble of his voice and felt herself surrender to the idea of his lips pressed on her mouth. 

“Fine. One kiss.”

“Get ready for bed. I’ll keep your spot warm until you’re in here with me. Then I’ll give you your goodnight kiss.” he said warmly.

She nodded unable to reply without giving away her high state of arousal, although she knew that it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Mulder’s penetrating stare. She grabbed at her pjs and went towards the bathroom to change, and she heard him groan with disappointment as she closed the door behind her. 

Once changed, she stepped out and he patted the space next to him. Obediently, and with a nervousness she hadn’t felt in a long time she slid underneath the covers, excruciatingly aware of his naked form next to her. 

“One kiss goodnight?” she asked, her voice coming out in a squeak. He smiled slyly, eyes glittering. “One kiss.” he whispered as he suddenly yanked her pyjama bottoms down in one smooth move. She squealed with surprise, her eyes widening. “Mulder what on earth?!”

“One kiss, Scully. But I get to choose where” he murmured as his head eased down between her legs.


	6. Walk Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt.
> 
> “If you walk out that door, you’re no longer one of us. You’ll be one of them and that means I’ll treat you like one of them.”

“Whether you like it or not, Scully, it comes down to the fact that we’re past the point of a ‘you’ or a ‘me’. We’ve become a compound word. There’s an _us_ , a _we_. And no matter how hard you try to extricate yourself from this partnership you can’t.”  
  
He was pacing around his Alexandria apartment like a caged animal, his hands clenching and unclenching in frustration while she stood by the door, glaring furiously at his constant movement. She had to work to unclench her jaw in order to speak. When she did, there was a bitter edge to it that he hadn’t heard in a very long time.  
  
Somewhat shrilly, she retorted “That’s awfully presumptuous of you. Once again you are speaking for the both of us and you don’t have the right. You talk like you have some kind of claim over me and you don’t. I’ve done my job, I have tailed after you to an infinite number of nameless towns, case after case, I have given you everything that I can give and this is it. I’m tired.”  
  
She gathered herself and faced him squarely. “The truth, Mulder? The truth isn’t out there. It’s right here: You will never get rid of this feeling of purpose that you have. There will always be a quest. And no matter what you say about an “us” or a “we” the reality is that I will always be a third wheel to you and your search.“  
  
There was a stunned silence in which he stopped pacing and stared at her, startled and hurt. "You don’t honestly think that.”  
  
“I do, Mulder. I don’t just think it. I know it.” She sighed with resignation and turned to pick up her jacket. “I have to go. This isn’t going anywhere.” she mumbled, sensing the depth of his stare and unable to look at him.  
  
“Don’t you walk out that door, Scully.” he threatened, his voice hoarse and tinged with a rough darkness. “If you walk out that door, you’re no longer one of us. You’ll be one of them and that means I’ll treat you like one of them.”  
  
Her head whipped to look at him so quickly that her red hair spilled over her face, briefly blanketing the pain and fury that was making her eyes change colour. “Fine, Mulder. Whatever. I don’t know what that even means."  
  
She reached for the door and started turning the handle with trembling hands when she felt herself being yanked backwards by the collar. The back of her jacket was grasped tightly in his fist and his other arm was wrapping around her waist painfully, crushing her hips. She inhaled sharply, both in fear and arousal and felt him press his lips against her ear.  
  
"It means, Scully, that if you fuck with me, I will do anything and everything to fuck with you.” She tried not to moan as his hand, still gripping her possessively, slid downwards to cup her pussy.  
  
“Fuck with me or fuck me, Mulder?” she panted as he breathed raggedly into her neck.  
  
“That’s entirely up to you, Scully. You just need to decide whether you’re going to walk out that door.”


	7. Scully Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Does he know about the baby?"

He has been gone for 3,247 minutes and the relativity of time had never been so blatant for Scully until the day she found out, almost simultaneously, that Mulder was gone and that she was pregnant; _with his child_ , the darker corners of her mind add. Her pregnancy is a miracle and a secret. The father even more so.

3,247 minutes ago, she and Skinner had both been brimming with tears, him with the guilt of loss, and she with the wonder of gain. Never should it be said that Fox Mulder never made grown men and women cry. Now, 3,247, no, 3,248 minutes later she’s inspecting her reflection on her bedroom’s full length-mirror. She’s still not at that stage where the hormones will compensate for her lack of sleep, for the nightmares.

She looks pale and drawn, and her exhaustion is furthered by the fact that she is about to meet her mother for coffee and she doesn’t know where to start that conversation. How to tell her that she is pregnant. That Mulder is missing. What this means for her, and for her future child. She traces her hand over stomach, still flat, and tries to imagine the person within while she internally speaks to the person she is now without.

 _Mulder_ , she reaches out.

She cocks her head and closes her eyes, and all she gets back is the hissing of a faraway pipe, the buzzing of exacerbated silence. The roaring defeat of a sigh.

She grabs her coat and leaves.

Her mother sits across the table from her, ignoring the camomile tea and studying her daughter instead. She knows, the way that mothers do, that her daughter is somehow both drained and overflowing, in the way that only women can be.

  
Scully’s hands are suddenly freezing cold and she cups her tea with both hands like a child and stares into the bottom of the cup, wishing she believed in tasseography. Her chest tightens at the thought of Mulder quirking his lips into a surprised smile at her sudden desire for the esoteric, his eyes would be gentle and slightly awed and he would kiss her nose. Her eyes grow blurry with tears as she tries not to blink.

Her mother’s warm hands bring her back. She is cupping hers over Scully’s and is quietly whispering her name.

“Honey, what is it?”

“MulderisgoneandI’mpregnant.”

The best news with the worst news do not cancel out. They do not make no news. They do not balance the guttural emotions that dredge out in a person and in those around them. Maggie Scully, her hands still around her daughter’s, whose own hands are still around the tea cup, smiles broadly and cries bitterly with all of the implications.

Yet Scully women are known to cry briefly and silently. When their hands finally separate, it’s to wipe tears and noses with napkins.

Maggie inquires softly, unsure, “Does he know about the baby?”

Scully catches her breath, knowing that her mother is asking, not if her partner would flee from the responsibility of fatherhood, but rather, if he has something to give him a reason to fight, to hope and come home to.

“I hope so, mom.” she whispers in a small voice. “I want to believe that he does.”


	8. Missed Rehearsal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 94 MSR “I left everything for this, I left it all…for you!”

“I’m going home.”  
  
It wasn’t the tone of her voice that made him stop in his tracks, it was the shape and colour of her eyes. He had never seen them so narrowed, their shade so shockingly stormy.  
  
This time, it was not about bagels with light cream cheese, or doing one too many autopsies. This was definitely something else.  
  
Mulder decided to approach with caution. He had seen her rabid like this before and knew that he had to cast his eyes down and circle her gingerly and humbly, physically making her sense that he didn’t want to engage, that she was in control of the conversation. He sat down to give her height over him and looked up, waiting for an explanation for her outburst.   
  
“Mulder, this is by far the biggest waste of time I’ve ever encountered. And I feel like I have experience in the matter. I have become the ruling monarch of wastes of time. Queen Scully.” she grumbled sharply, crossing her arms over her chest.   
  
“Does that make me your king?” he joked, realising the minute the words left his damn mouth that he had made a mistake.  
  
“I left everything for this, I left it all for you!” she pronounced shrilly. He shifts uncomfortably in the lumpy motel couch and wonders if this is about the case or the X-files in general.  
  
“Scully, I’m sorry.” he muttered while he shook his head. “I really am. I thought there was something here and there wasn’t and I know that I dragged you through the rain and the mud and that another pair of shoes were ruined and that you missed your college roommate’s wedding–”  
  
She cut him off, “I didn’t.” she sighed. “I missed the rehearsal dinner.” Mulder tilted his head in inquiry.   
  
“I’m a bridesmaid.” she admitted somewhat embarrassedly.  
  
The admission made him smile broadly. “Scully…” he began, seeing that her previous flaring had mellowed somewhat. “…do you have to wear a dress?”  
  
She grinned despite herself and nodded. “It’s yellow.” she informed him and the sweet simplicity of the statement filled him with a feeling of tenderness.  
  
“I’ve never seen you in yellow.” he replied thoughtfully, and tried to imagine how it would look against her hair. She bit her lip and furrowed her forehead slightly, clearly in the middle of making a decision. Inhaling deeply she asked him, “Would you like to?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“See me in yellow, I mean” she mumbled, blushing slightly.  
  
Mulder couldn’t help but let out a delighted chuckle. “Agent Scully, are you asking me to be your date to a wedding?”   
  
She turned away, her chest and face flushed pink. “Nevermind, Mulder.”   
  
He was not going to let this one go, no way. He caught her by the elbow and turned her towards him, a little more roughly than he meant to.  
  
Her eyes widened slightly when he leaned in closer and looked at her with an intensity that made her breath catch slightly. “I would love to. Really, Scully.” he whispered.  
  
She grinned up at him, previous anger forgotten, and more pleased than she cared to admit to him or herself.   
  
He laced his fingers with hers and tugged slightly at her hand. “Come on, partner. Let’s get out of here. We gotta find our dancing shoes.”


	9. Closed for Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. She’s too smart for you  
> 6\. What do you mean you’re closed?

Mulder tugs at the loosened label on his sweaty beer bottle and watches Langly’s avatar throw a fatal kick at Frohike’s, resulting in a K.O that puts an end to Frohike’s run as undefeated Mortal Kombat champion and makes Langly stand up and give a cheer that would put football fans to shame.

“Whatever,” Frohike grumbles and fidgets with the console. “I was tired of winning anyway, scarecrow mop.” 

Langly snorts, reaches for another beer, and looks at Mulder’s clumsy label-peeling job. “Mulder, you next?” he asks while catching Byers’s eye. Byers tugs at his tie and smiles back at Langly but mostly at himself.

“I believe Agent Mulder is a little too preoccupied right now to show off his kung fu.”

Frohike smirks and pats Mulder’s knee with understanding. “Are you worried that now that the delectable agent Scully has met me you’ve lost any chance you ever had with her?”

Mulder chuckles and takes a long swig before setting the bottle down and reaches for his sunflower seeds. 

“I knew introducing you was a mistake, Frohike. I don’t think she’ll ever come through this door again. First you hit on her and then you have the gall to stiff her for 20 bucks.”

Byers looks indignant. “Hey. We were making a point. As someone working in a Federal building she should be aware of…”

“I know, I know. Shadow conspiracy. Spies in every corner. Government within a government. Baby steps, Byers, baby steps. I feel I’ve already frightened her enough with the cases we’ve had.” 

Mulder’s face looks troubled for a moment and Langly reassures him, “Mulder, if she didn’t want to stay she’d be gone by now. She’s the real deal. She’s saved your ass this year more often than we have in the time that we’ve known you.”

Frohike nods gravely while reaching for the guacamole. “The Grateful Dead reject is right, Mulder. She’s going to stick around even though she’s too smart for you,” he chews thoughtfully and smooths his hair,   
“Me on the other hand, have an IQ that could match hers like I bet her curtains match her drapes.”

Byers jaw drops, Langly chokes on his beer and Mulder stares at Frohike unsure if he wants to strangle him or throw his head back and howl with laughter at the absurdity. 

“Face it Mulder,” Frohike says seriously while catching Mulder’s eye. “You like her. Like, I-want-to-skip-hanging-out-with-the-boys-and-pretend-I-have-a-case that-I-need-to-talk-to-you-about, like her.” 

He takes the torn-up pieces of paper from in front of Mulder and tosses them aside knowingly. “You’ve had a thing for her since she showed you her mosquito bites and laughed with you in that graveyard in the rain. Talk about about romantic.”

Byers steps in from behind the couch while playing cautiously with his tie. “Mulder, all things considered… She dropping a robe in your motel room, and being soaking wet with you in the middle of the night is the closest thing you’ve had to a date since Diana.”

Langly and Mulder simultaneously grimace at Diana’s name but Mulder speaks first, with a cadence of defeat disguised as nonchalance. “Scully’s not my type. Besides, I’m closed for business.”

Langly squints at him as if not recognising him, “What do you mean ‘you’re closed’? What the hell have you been selling?”

Mulder doesn’t reply but simply thumbs a sunflower shell while Byers glares purposedly at Langly, who shrugs and continues. 

“Man, is this about Diana? Listen, that was a long time ago and she left. She left and you deserved better and Scully….Scully’s great, Mulder, she’s beautiful and definitely smarter than you and I really think you should…”

“I’m not falling in love with my partner again,” Mulder mutters and reaches for the console while motioning to Langly that he’s ready to play.

The four men stare at the screen, but it’s the Lone Gunmen’s eyes that meet in the reflection. They won’t say anything, but they know. They know with the same unwavering certainty that they know about Kennedy’s assassination and tracking devices in currency: Mulder has fallen already.


	10. Tactile Learner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 13\. In the storm  
> 26\. Tactile

“Mulder, pull over. You’re going to get us both killed”  
  
The rain is pounding on the rental car, the water spraying on the windows as if God himself was hosing them down. He stays silent but does what he is told and shuts off the engine which makes the rain go from a blaring roar to a thundering cannonade.  
  
He stares at the steering wheel, which he is still clutching and mutters, “I wasn’t acting jealous, Scully. He was leering. It was disrespectful.”  
  
She cranes her neck to hear him better and rolls her eyes. He won’t look at her and won’t let go of the steering wheel and frankly, she cannot believe he is having such a high school reaction to the local sheriff.   
  
“He asked me out and I said no. I didn’t see him leering and as for it being disrespectful, he waited until the case was over. I don’t know why you’re acting this way.”  
  
He glares at the water coming down by the bucketful over their heads but just worries his lower lip and refuses to meet her eye. Her face softens, no longer as annoyed but almost…touched by the protective display and decides to change the subject.  
  
“Mulder, when was the last time you had to stop the car because the rain was this strong?”  
  
He appreciates the shift in conversation, and turns his head to stare at her full-on, a strange gleam in his eye.   
  
“Martha’s Vineyard, Summer of 1980. I had just gotten my driving licence and was taking a girl home after our date.”  
  
Scully’s eyebrows shoot up and asks him what she knows she shouldn’t.  
  
“What did you guys do to pass the time?”  
  
He leans a little closer and she licks her upper lip nervously with the sudden invasion of space.  
  
“I kept her warm, Scully. We kissed for a while and then we went to the back seat.”  
  
She tries to grin, to make a joke, but he is too close and she feels the warmth radiating off of him and feels betrayed by her own body when she notes the dull, pulsing pressure between her legs. She swallows slowly and asks, despite herself,  
  
“What did you do back there?”  
  
Mulder leans even closer, blatantly brushing up against her as he reaches for the sunflower seeds in the glove compartment. He gets them, sits back and she suddenly misses the proximity. He opens the package and offers her some and she shakes her head quickly, nervous, as if on a first date.  
  
“We kissed. She took off her top for me. It was the first time I ever saw a real girl without her shirt on.”  
  
He pops a few seeds into his mouth and removes the shells, smoothly. Skilfully. His tongue never faltering.  
  
“It was also the first time that I ever went down on a girl.”  
  
Scully shifts on her seat uncomfortably, the image of a young Mulder exploring his date’s body like Magellan at sea makes her jealous at her own memory of first-time oral. She watches as he flicks his tongue to de-shell another seed and wonders. He watches her watch him and continues,  
  
“It was also the first time I made a girl cum.”  
  
She exhales slowly, trying to regain composure, but he is looking at her like she’s the last bottle of water and he’s been living on very dry land.   
  
“Mulder…” she begins and doesn’t know what to say. He reaches for her again and touches the inside of her thigh with the hand holding the bag of sunflower seeds and slowly puts them back in the glove compartment.  
  
“That’s when I figured out that I was a really…tactile learner,” he grins playfully and she wants to punch his lip and kiss it better.   
  
“Hey Scully,” he says and looks pointedly at the backseat through the car’s rearview mirror.  
  
Scully berates herself for sounding breathless.  
  
“Yes, Mulder?”  
  
He smiles at her with all of his teeth and all of his jealousy gone.  
  
“The rain stopped.”  
  
He starts the car.


	11. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What would you think about writing a post-Scully's dad dying that doesn't necessarily have to be sex, but maybe just a sad, comfort thing where even though it's early, Scully lets Mulder comfort her through the night and he's bold enough to do so. Eh? :)"

The dip of her weight as she is sitting on his hospital bed feels almost as intimate as her admitting that she is afraid to believe. Almost as intimate as when he chose to call her by her first name or touch her arm when, through her grief, she gives him a shadow of a smile and tells him that she knows her father. She can feel the words her dad would’ve said to her in her bones the way some people can feel approaching rain. Fractured arms and fractured hearts are good that way, they help read all sorts of weather.

Still, her eyes grow heavy with tears and she stares at his hospital sheets unblinkingly, knowing if her eyes close the tears will fall, and she’s not one to grieve in public. He squeezes her arm gently, using his thumb to rub the crease of her elbow, reminding her that he is not the public. He is Mulder, never Fox. She swallows and thinks, my dad would’ve liked you, despite the fact that he hated that I was an FBI agent.

“Scully,” he begins and she shakes her head and wipes her face. Her chest begins to tighten with the sense of overwhelming panic that comes with all big losses, when gods, heroes, myths or, well, fathers die. 

She moves to get up but he grips her arm tightly which forces her to look at his face. “It’s ok” he states simply and his eyes are open and filled with compassion. She cries quietly, the sobs violent and shuddering, and carefully, very carefully, Mulder slips off the IV needle from his hand and tugs her in his direction, scooting over to give her space on his rickety bed. Little does she know that she will cry with him in numerous hospitals, that mourning together will be the closest they’ll come to praying, or fucking, for years but will feel just as personal and deep-seated.

She sinks into his pillow and shuts her eyes and breathes to the rhythm of Mulder’s chest moving against her back, in and out, in and out, and imagines the salt on her face to be the spray of the ocean, that their rhythm is like the lapping of soft waves. She feels him stroke her hair and whisper sweet nothings on the crown of her head and wonders what it must be like to fall in love with such a man.


	12. Hearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 19\. You say you don’t want to, but I know you’re lying

Mulder absentmindedly rolls the eraser on the back of his pencil over his lower lip and she pretends not to notice. She can barely move, she’s wearing every single article of clothing she brought in that day and wishes she would’ve worn more. Yet, a broken radiator on the first week of January doesn’t seem to faze Mulder, who isn’t wearing a jacket and whose sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms. Clearly, the man runs hot. 

She watches as the pencil dips down on the middle of his lip over and over again and feels herself flush warm, despite the cold, despite the fact that she can see her own breath in the basement office air. She had spent New Years Eve with her mother, both of them huddled on the couch drinking hot tea while watching the ball drop on Time’s Square and neither mentioning Ahab out of respect for the other’s mourning. She had squeezed her mom’s hand when the counter hit zero and had left the next morning, berating herself for the tears in the car that refused to stop falling for exactly 2.7 miles. 

 

Now she catches herself looking at Mulder’s lips and wondering how they taste with New Year’s champagne on his tongue. If he’s a chaste kisser or if that plump lower lip likes to get bitten, if the movement of his pencil is the replica of what he would like to have done on him with a tongue. The rolling pencil stops and she startles, ashamed at her lust when she should be grieving, still in awe at how mourning seeps through the cracks of the everyday, and somehow still sometimes feels in other moments like a chore, a duty.

“Come on, Scully. I know you want to,” he murmurs, not looking up, studying the file in front of him with the steadfast attention that he only seems to have for cases, basketball and lately, for her.

She’s a scientist, and even if she wasn’t, she’s LOGICAL, she knows that her partner hasn’t read her thoughts, and yet…and yet.

“Your lips are turning blue, you’re freezing cold, and you’ve been eyeing my jacket for the past five minutes.” 

His eyes glance upwards and catch hers while he tilts his head as if to further inspect the blush that’s creeping up her neck despite herself. He smiles kindly, if not a little playfully, and reaches for the black trench coat hanging behind him.

“You can use it as blanket, Scully” and there’s a tenderness to the offer that makes her want to cry. Despite submerging herself in her work, she’s sensitive, still raw with a loss that can’t quite measure. This is a death she can’t comprehend in an autopsy bay. She ducks her head and shakes her head slowly, mumbling a thanks and hears him get up from his seat and walk over briskly.

“You say you don’t want to but I know you’re lying,” he chuckles and drapes the coat over her shoulders. He takes her hair and untucks it from under the trench, brushing her neck in the process and she tries not to loll her head forward as an invitation for the rest of his hand. I do want to, she thinks. And she does. She wants to. She wants to translates to many things. He doesn’t know how deeply she’s lying, how efficiently.

He rubs her shoulders the way you would to warm a child and leans in, his tie softly stroking her ear.

“Scully?”

Her answer sounds cooler than how she feels. 

“Yes, Mulder.”

He crouches next to her and she’s looking down at his face which is kind and knowing and open to the point where it hurts to look at it. 

“It’s colder than the goddamn Arctic in here. I’d actually rather be back there with the scientists, the insane dog and the worms than stuck here another minute.”

She laughs, her first genuine laugh since Christmas and the quirk on his lips indicates that he’s thrilled to hear it. 

“Mulder I don’t remember the last time I was this cold.”

“Well, think about it on the way out and you can tell me later. I’m buying you dinner. Make up for any limbs you might lose if we don’t make it to that elevator in the next 5 minutes. The last thing I need is Human Resources on my ass for reckless endangerment of an agent while on a basement.”

Scully grins and reaches for her bag but he catches her hand and grips it tightly before letting go. “Let me, Scully. You handle the blanket-trench.”

They walk side by side to the elevator, and when they get in their eyes meet in the mirror. She, dwarfed by the layers of warmth-seeking fabric, and he tall and still. Her partner. Her friend. Her hearth.


	13. Changing Diapers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a Mulder/William mood... can you write a thing where Scully is sick so Mulder has to take extra care of William and somehow ends up giving him a late night bath and Scully either walks in all cuddly and confused or after the bath, mulder cuddles Scully and she wakes up and says he smells like William?

Her fever hasn’t broken yet, and neither has her stubbornness. Despite burning up, Scully had extracted her sweat-slicked body from the sheets to tend to Will’s cries in the apartment, only making it a few steps before losing her balance and having to lean against the wall, dry-heaving and disgusted at herself for getting so ill.

From the darkness, Mulder’s voice pierced the night in a gentle murmur. “If the situation were reversed, you’d kick my ass for getting up and tell me that I’m in no condition to take care of a baby.”

She swallows at the nausea and tries to swallow her pride along with it while inching her way back to the bed. “Mulder…”

“Don’t worry, Scully. I’ve got this. Go back to sleep.” He studies the silhouette of her face in the half-light, the curve of her nose and the furrow between her eyes. He sweeps the hair sticking to her flushed face out of the way and puts his lips to her forehead, half as a kiss, half to take her temperature. 

He scratches his bare stomach as he makes his way towards the other room, where he finds Will mewling somewhat pitifully from his crib. As soon as he sees, Mulder, Will raises his hands up to him, his big blue eyes full of tears but not crying. Mulder uses the same hand he used to scratch to touch the baby’s belly, wandering at how the spans of his fingers cover William’s belly in its entirety. 

Mulder picks him up and places him against his bare chest, marvelling at how impossibly soft Will is, how small and perfect. “What is it, buddy. You hungry?” As soon as the words leave his mouth does he realise that hunger isn’t what’s bothering Will.   
“Damn, kid. That is some serious stink there.” He grins and grimaces simultaneously when he sees that Will doesn’t just need a diaper change, he needs a bath. “Woah” he says while stripping him of his Huggies and seeing an impossible amount of brown inside. His eyes crinkle with laughter as he thinks to himself, Boy’s got his dad’s bowel movements.

He takes his son into the bathroom where he bounces him around gently, waiting for the small yellow basin in the tub to fill up with warm water. Will looks at his future impromptu bath with baby-like glee and shoves his tiny fist into his mouth, then offers it to Mulder, as if sharing. 

“Your mom’s a big fan of baths too, kiddo,” Mulder whispers and reminds himself that it’ll soon be time for Scully’s next dose of acetaminophen, and smiles at the fact that he no longer calls it Tylenol because of her. 

Once in the water, both Mulder and William are sighing contentedly, and Mulder’s running his fingers over Will’s little ones, measuring the fat wrinkles on his skin, and inhaling deeply with the smell of baby soap, of baby skin. He stares at his son sitting in the yellow basin, and his son stares back and smiles. Mulder is completely aware that this child owns his ass, that his heart hurts with a love and tenderness he didn’t think possible. He thinks of Scully sleeping in the bedroom and tries to remind himself that hearts cannot burst. She would say that to him herself.

What simple pleasure, what an ordinary thing to want to give everything up for. To give a baby a bath late at night and know that the woman you love is in the room next door, in bed, waiting for your return. To take care of both of them, to wait for morning and feel excited for what’s to come, for diapers and cups of coffee and to hold both of them close to you. 

Towel-dried and droopy-eyed, Will settles back into his crib with a fresh diaper and a clean onesie, his eyes blinking sleepily until they shut completely, his breathing steady. Mulder grips the side of the crib and stands amazed. He never thought he would find a baby covered in his own shit to be such a beautiful thing.

He goes back into the bedroom, gently wakes up Scully to give her a tablet and settles down next to her, cradling her against his chest. She sniffs at his collarbone, her maternal instinct stronger than her blocked nose.

“You smell like him.”

He chuckles into the top of her head and brings her closer to him and his thoughts drift back to the dirty diaper.

I sure hope not, he muses, and kisses her while he feels her sink back into a sleepy oblivion, and shuts his own eyes.


	14. Onesies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a family fic/short ficlet where Mulder keeps buying William alien themed onesies and clothes and Scully keeps rolling her eyes but dresses him in them anyways. THEN SHE BUYS WILLIAM A FOX ONESIE AND MULDER GIVES SCULLY THE FACE! :)

_Trust Mulder to find a place where they sell themed onesies_ , Scully thinks as she notices the bag on the dresser. She nuzzles the top of WIlliam’s head and breathes him in before putting him down gently in his crib, pink and naked and grinning toothlessly.  
  
He’d been bringing them in slowly, one a week, and she had raised her eyebrow at him with each one. First it was the onesie that looked like a replica of a NASA space suit. Then, the solar system which had the sun beaming from Will’s chubby neckline down to his belly where Pluto was inside a parenthesis where Will’s belly button would be with the words, “I _know, I know, but I’m old-school_ ” next to the dwarf planet. 

It was this particular onesie that made her suspicious, and when the third came along that’s when she knew. Mulder was getting these custom made. The damn thing was a perfect replica of their basement office poster.   
  
“Mulder you’re not serious.”  
  
“Scully, listen to me. I can see it in his face. He may have your eyes, but he hasn’t inherited your die-hard skepticism, I can tell. The boy knows, he knows that the truth is out there.”  
  
She had snorted but had felt her heart squeeze as she clasped the onesie snaps shut, and saw their son rubbing the blurry UFO on his baby belly. She’d chortle every time she found a new one inside the drawer, but after the fourth she had stepped into the shower while Mulder was there and stood naked, her hands on her hips, trying her best to look annoyed while appreciating the lithe lines of his body.  
  
His hair lathered with shampoo, Mulder had looked back at her and waggled his eyebrows invitingly.  
  
“Fancy seeing you in here, agent,” he had said while rinsing and turning around to face her, “What can I do you for?”  
  
“Mulder, just get it out of your system,” Scully said with mock sternness. “Get all the onesies on one go, just stop slipping them inside the drawer like they’re videos that aren’t yours.”  
  
He had grinned at her delightedly and pulled her against him, the trickling water between them pooling where their bodies touched.   
  
“Scully, I can’t believe you just compared the outfits I buy Will to porn, but thank you. I’ve got ideas.”  
  
Now opening the bag on the dresser she sees that he indeed had ideas. There are 8 onesies inside. One saying _Grey **.** Little GREY men_ **.** Another where it’s clearly a cartoon version of him and her flying UFO-shaped kites. A third with two open umbrellas and toads flying all around. Another reading simply O-ko-bo-gee. One with the drawing of a long neck gleaming out of water. _Big Blue lives! RIP Queequeg_. One saying _I put the I in FBI_ , and her two favourites, one of Apollo 11 surrounded by stars, and another one that had a gun and a stethoscope with a banner above reading _Stand back. My mom’s a medical doctor_.   
  
She looks at William as she puts away the onesies, folding them carefully and placing them inside the drawer while cooing at him, “He did well, but it’s mommy’s turn to dress you today, baby. Yes it is.”  
  
Mulder steps into the apartment with the groceries, shaking off the rain from outside, and finds Scully in the living room holding Will in her arms, who is looking cozy and bundled up in a winter onesie with a hoodie. He sets the bags down on the table and walks towards them when he notices that the hoodie is the face of a fox and that the onesie actually has a fox’s tail.   
  
Mulder grimaces at the physical manifestation of his first name.   
  
“Scullyyyyy,”   
  
“Shut up, Mulder.” she admonishes while raising her face to greet him. “It’s just an animal onesie. A Fox. Like his father.”  
  
And on her mouth she can feel the quirk of his lips as he smiles into her kiss, his thumb stroking the downy hair on his son’s little head


	15. Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18\. Bite (MSR)

\- She bites into the ribs and you wipe her face with your napkin, but want to use your bare thumb instead. Later on that night, you will admit to yourself that you wanted to use your lips or your tongue and that the boys referring to her as “the little wife” made you smile inwardly in a way you didn’t remember you could.

\- She’s wearing the sheriff’s jacket and your shoelaces are untied. It suits her, that oversized thing, but then again most things do and you are struck in the balls with jealousy. That he might have pulled a real-life Dracula on her–seduced her, enthralled her. Fucked her in a way that goes down in history, part fact, part legend. Because vampires really are that good. She tilts her head back, side-to-side so you can check her neck for bite marks, and although there are none, you want to leave one of your own. Not that you want to seem possessive, but admittedly you are, a little, and wish the jacket was your Knicks sweatshirt instead.

\- She’s kneeling on the bed naked. One of your arms is wrapped tightly over her stomach gripping her right hipbone and the other crossed over, squeezing her left breast. You feel her heart pounding under your fingertips and on her back, against your chest, as you thrust inside her hard, over and over. She rocks upwards and backwards against you panting heavily, her muscles starting to clamp down on the hard length of you, her orgasm fast approaching. You wait for the tell-tale sign, her quiet gasp, as if surprised that her body is exploding and when you hear it, you bite down hard on the place where her neck meets her back, knowing that this particular hurt feels so good to her when she’s coming, knowing that she fingers the mark and herself when you’re not around.

\- You bite back the accusation, but it’s too late. She is furious and in tears and the signs have been there for a while now, but now her leaving is a real possibility. You know, the way you know when she’s hungry or the smell of her hair, that she will not be there when you wake up tomorrow. She will be gone, and although once upon a time she would’ve left a note, the only letters she writes you now are ones in her journal that you can’t even begin to fix. And yes, he’s your son, and yes, you were gone and what else could she do but try her best. She’s fighting back tears as she washes the dishes and you don’t go to her. You don’t apologise. You pick up your plate, dump it in the sink without looking at her and go to your office to stare at his baby pictures again.


	16. Horoscope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 36\. that hurt 45. under the influence

  
The knocking is familiar but has an insistent cadence to it that makes her skip putting on a robe and walk a little more hurriedly to open her apartment door. She’s not surprised to see Mulder standing there, silhouetted in the half-light and her eyes have to adjust to the gloom in order to read his face. She doesn’t need to see him, though, only smell him to know, immediately after opening the door, that he has been drinking. Heavily. Not a good sign.   
  
He moves to come in without really asking for an invite, but not before she catches him eyeing her flannel pyjama bottoms, her soft cotton grey t-shirt, and she isn’t sure if she feels her nipples harden because of the way he is studying her body, or because he’s letting in the cold air. She decides it’s the latter and crosses her arms over her chest, as if in defiance.  
  
“Mulder, you were released from the hospital THIS MORNING after almost killing yourself in the Bermuda Triangle and the first thing you do is try to drown yourself again, this time using whiskey–” she sniffs at him with a hint of disdain and catches the scent of alcohol but also of his all-too-familiar sweat and aftershave,”–and _Bud Light_?”  
  
He touches his nose and points at her as if playing charades and takes off his leather jacket, the muscles on his back rippling despite being covered by another layer. She crosses her arms a little tighter and averts her eyes as if seeing something she shouldn’t have. She asks him softly, albeit somewhat suspiciously,  
  
“Mulder, what the hell are you doing here?”  
  
He pouts, somewhat in jest, but with a look of genuine dejection on his face.  
  
“ _Oh brother_? Scully? I tell you how I feel about you and that’s what I get in return? You know… you don’t have to feel the same way, but you shouldn’t just dismiss people’s feelings like that. That hurt.”  
  
They both stand still, quietly. She can’t tell if he’s being flippant or dead serious. Usually she can read him like a favourite book, but his eyes are a little too cloudy, his jaw a little too slack, and she shakes her head instead.  
  
“You were high when you said it and you are drunk now. I’m not going to take declarations fuelled by morphine and Johnny Walker at face value.”  
  
He nods as if understanding, but she knows this nod to be his way of saying  _Yes, but no, Scully,_ and she moves around him trying to ignore his looming form in her living room, while getting pillows and a blanket for the couch. He is right behind her when he whispers,  
  
“What if I told you that I’m here because Venus is in my house and I’m supposed to take daring plunges in matters of the heart?”  
  
She gapes at him and chuckles softly, thinking fondly back on teenage years when she and her sister would lay together in bed and look up their crushes’ horoscopes in magazines and giggle at their romantic prospects according to the stars.  
  
“I’d tell you that you’re an idiot.”   
  
She immediately regrets the words. He is looking at her with bleary-eyed longing. She understands that it’s Mulder, and that he’s a little foggy from the drinking, but there’s something about the tired expectation in his eyes, the wistful pining…she knows it all too well. She has felt it inside cars during long trips and across the wall from adjoining motel rooms. She feels it now as she takes his hand and leads him towards the makeshift bed she’s made for him on the couch.  
  
“Not an idiot, Mulder. Never an idiot. I’m sorry. I think you and Melissa would’ve gotten along great. I wish you’d known her better.”  
  
She helps him take off his shoes one by one as he sits still, contemplating her. As he stretches out on the couch she squeezes his shoulder and whispers, “I bet the two of you would’ve ended up dating.”  
  
She covers him with a blanket and walks towards her room, when his voice cuts through the semi-darkness. Lucid and self-assured.  
  
“She’d be the wrong sister.”


	17. Star-gazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 15\. shooting star 32. open your eyes

  
He watches her carefully from the corner of his eye as he drives along the dry, deserted Arizona highway. The case in Kingman had been a bust, had absolutely no connection to the 1953 UFO crash and Scully was eye-rolling so hard her corneas might as well be doing parkour.   
  
Their flight leaves from Las Vegas and he knows how much she hates the city, with its plastic brand of shiny, it’s fake tan and sequinned glitter, the constant jingle-jangled rattle of canned music and machines. She chooses the quiet a lot more often now, since Antartica. Since the cancer, since Emily.   
  
He shakes his head to himself and wonders how someone with such small hands can have the amount of backbone that she does. He still can’t understand how someone could possibly get more striking with each and every impossible tragedy. But she does. Somehow Scully does.  
  
She has been looking out the window for a while now. There’s about an hour until sunset and the shift in the sky’s colouring is tinting her skin and her hair, and although he cannot hear it, he knows her well enough to know that she’s just sighed.  
  
 _Fuck it_ , he thinks and decides to turn right at the next exit.   
.  
She blinks sleepily as he’s parking the car, the light going from a warm, golden yellow to a soft pink that reminds him of her lips when she’s not wearing make-up and saunters to his room for a last minute chat. She sits upright, hyper-aware but not apprehensive.  
  
“Mulder, this isn’t Las Vegas.”  
  
He grins at her and turns off the ignition.   
  
“Get out, Dorothy. We’re off to see the Wizard.”  
  
She quirks an eyebrow at him but chooses not to say anything and follows him towards the park ranger who’s already apologetically shaking his head at them.  
  
“Sorry folks, the skywalk is closed. Opening hours are from 7:30 to 4–” and stops as Mulder looks him dead in the eye while flashing his FBI badge with poker-faced seriousness.”  
  
Still drowsy with sleep, Scully tries to look businesslike while wondering what the hell they’re doing at the Grand Canyon. After being waved through by a curious ranger, she starts to grin as Mulder leads her to the famous glass-floor walkway.  
  
“Mulder, what in the world…?”  
  
He turns and beams at her, takes her by the wrist and practically drags her towards the structure, giddy and eager like a schoolboy….or giddy like Mulder when he’s about to go star-gazing, which is what, she has now realised, is the case.  
  
The pink and purple hues have turned dark by the time they get there and she’s thankful for the inky blackness of the void beneath her feet. They lean against the rail looking up at the constellations above that, with each passing moment, are glowing brighter and increasingly numerous. She thinks back at the few times she was at high sea with her father and the feeling of sacredness she got from watching the stars twinkle above her, in the great beyond, while the waves rolled below. She looks at her partner beside her and fights the impulse to twine her fingers with his.  
  
“I bet we’ll see some shooting stars, Scully,” he whispers, almost reverently, and she admits to herself that she is just as excited as he is at the prospect.  
  
She pictures a young Mulder looking up at the sky after his sister was taken and doesn’t need to imagine what he used to wish for while he was growing up.  
  
“Do you still make wishes, Mulder?” she asks softly and isn’t at all surprised when he nods and turns to smile wistfully at her.  
  
“Do you?”   
  
She doesn’t tell him that she makes wishes all the time. That she makes them while kneeling at church or by her bed and calls them prayers. She doesn’t let him know that these prayers are, more often than not, about him now. She wishes him peace, she gives thanks for his existence. Now she decides that if she sees a shooting star she’ll wish for something for herself. She feels warm at the admission.  
  
At that moment, Scully feels him squeeze her arm excitedly. A star is plunging from the sky, leaving a trail of light behind it and she wants to cross herself. If this isn’t the definition of communion then she doesn’t know what is. She closes her eyes and makes a wish. The picture branded behind her eyelids is of Mulder and his lips. The way the colour of his eyes shifts when he’s happy or looking at her, like that one time, lifetimes ago, in his hallway.  
  
“Open your eyes, Scully.”  
  
She feels him rather than hears him, the soft breath of his voice moving the light hairs next to her earlobe, and for a minute she believes that perhaps he really does read minds after all. When she does open her eyes and looks up at him, she has no doubt in her mind that they have wished for the same thing.  
  
She tilts her head back, parts her lips and lets him kiss her for a long time under the twinkling sea of stars.


	18. Dear Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by Letters Live, so I wanted to write a letter from Mulder to Bill Mulder.

Dear Dad,

It’s been nearly a decade now since I watched you die on the linoleum and found out that the stench of our blood was the same, that our DNA goes beyond noses and oral fixations, that the copper scent of dying blood cells is as familial and recognisable as the stink of sweat or the echo of footsteps.

Every once in a while, I wake up thinking that I can still smell you, not the late-night whiskey and cigars that made me want to worship the idea of you like an earthbound god; but the ugly death, the loosened sphincter, the drooling lips, the lolling eyes. The sight of a father no child should ever witness. I think of my own son now, and though I weep over his absence, I also give thanks that he won’t witness the mortality of his old man. He only witnessed my immortality, briefly, post-mortem, and was too young to remember. 

I dream of him like I dream of you, caught in an in-between landscape of longing and imagination, our childhood beach, and there I sift through images of you and find myself replacing your face with mine in my memories. I run with him while he’s riding a red bicycle, making sure he doesn’t notice when I let go, and he is pedalling wildly down the quiet suburban street, the gravel crunching under my slowing footsteps. I watch him wobble as you must’ve looked at me once, clenching and unclenching your wizened fist, knowing that you had to let go and that I could either fall or keep going and that both were equally probable. That once your hands released me, my path was my own, but that you had put me on my initial trajectory. After Samantha, your fingers wouldn’t stop balling into fists and so you found it easier to wrap them around a glass of whisky or my mother’s wrist. 

Dad, I find myself often knuckle-white and clutching at the steering wheel when I think of William, named after you. I’m enough of your son to know the temptations of the bottle, but resent you enough to stay away from it. I know Scully can sense our history rolling off me like waves, and she navigates herself on me, fire-headed, born of the ocean and stills me. When I wrap my hands around her wrists, around her neck, it is different. It is shared grief that I never saw between you and my mother. When my fingers tighten, her gasp is of relief, of release. We punish and forgive each other every single time we touch. I wish I could’ve understood sooner that our loss is not an absence but rather the gain of a vacuum. That voids are a physical, tangible thing that breathe and groan inside us and cannot be filled. I think of you and mom and feel the fingertips of reasoning almost touch you, almost comprehend. 

In my dreams, I still throw baseballs at you and you never catch them. I can’t break you like windows. I can’t get through to you because you were never there. I used to pray to find Samantha. Now I find myself praying for my son to never find me. I fear sometimes that I am too much like you.

Fox


	19. Dear Scully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 31\. blame me 37. I meant no harm.

Dear Scully,  
  
I catch you tracing his name on the dust piling up on the window of the car that we bought six towns ago, the particles measuring his absence in layers of grey distance, of years he will grow without knowing us at all.   
  
You wipe your finger on your jeans, already dirty but not well enough, so that when you try to dry your eyes, you mark your face the way the priests used to on a Wednesday when you sacrificed something. You never thought it’d be a son. You never thought Lent would last a lifetime and would make you question your faith in God, but mostly your faith in me. Blame me Scully. I already do. It should be easy. It should feel true, but I hope you know that I meant no harm. I would rather put a gun in my mouth, and when I hear you cry out for him I can almost feel the cold, oily barrel on my lips. Almost.  
  
I see his name on your fingertips when you clench and unclench the countless motel pillows. I read it on our palms, like a broken branch in the family tree that is etched on our life lines. I hear it in the howling of the stray dogs that wail into the night, baying a Kyrie for a son’s name that I cannot say out loud.  
  
Kyrie, Scully. Lord have mercy. I love you. I’m sorry. Say his name to me so that I am brave enough to repeat it.


	20. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 46\. fever 50. odds and ends  
> Post-revival MSR

It was like playing Jenga in reverse. She was returning the blocks that were missing from what they had built together. She was bringing back odds and ends– a hairbrush, her favourite coffee, a bottle of moisturiser, little big things that were slowly filling-in the gaps of her absence in the unremarkable house.   
  
He marvels at the seemingly insignificant objects and cringes physically at the reminder that he had lived 573 days without her. Now whenever she’s not there he feels a little feverish, weak; but then again, he also runs hot when she actually is there as well. His pulse quickens, his skin flushes, his hands shake slightly when he touches her.  
  
He’s laying down on the couch staring at the ceiling. The book he is reading forgotten on his stomach as he thinks back on the text messages he’s been getting from her today. And although he misses the way they used to constantly call each other when they were partners, there’s something to be said about modern technology and cellphone cameras. He grins at the memory. He had rolled over that morning and found her gone already, the text on his screen making him smile.  
  
 _“I can’t stop thinking about you.”  
_  
His thumbs had been remarkably fast when he typed, anxious to communicate with her.   
  
 _“Hurry home, G-woman. There are things I want to do to you.”_  
  
Several minutes had gone by in silence and he had gotten worried, just a little, until he received a picture of what was a clearly the linoleum tiles of a bathroom floor. It featured Scully’s legs in impossibly high heels and small, plum lace panties drawn down to her ankles.

  
He had felt himself stiffen and had groaned both at the image and at the fact that he should erase it from his phone. Damn his paranoia. He thinks of Frohike and smiles fondly, missing his friend’s blatant ogling. Frohike had always been the honest one.   
  
He is startled out of his reverie with the sound of her keys in the door and feels like an idiot when he scrambles for his book and opens it to a random page.   
  
“Mulder?” he hears her call out and he yells back “In here!” and shakes his head disbelievingly at the fact that he’s somehow already getting hard. _573 days, you asshole_ his dick seems to remind him. He hears the steady clip of her heels and finds himself looking up at her. She looks smug and has that enigmatic doctor Scully smile on her face that means that he better be ready to play. He loves that smile. He missed that smile.  
  
She bends over to kiss him hello and, upside-down, their lips are the only things that align. She straightens and he moves to get up but she pushes down on him gently with a hand on his chest and sighs simply,  
  
“I’ve had a long day.”  
  
He feels himself deflate slightly, confused that he was so wrong in reading her, but quickly recovers when she leans forward to stroke him playfully over his jeans.   
  
“Scully…” he begins, but she coolly takes a couch cushion and places it under his neck to support his head, which is now hanging slightly off of the leather. She doesn’t say anything but her silence is loaded and he recognises her shallow little intakes of breath as arousal.   
  
He looks up at her while she looks down at him and he smiles lazily, never breaking eye-contact, as he unzips his jeans and takes out his cock for her to look at, thick and already throbbing. Her eyes narrow as she drinks in the picture of him wrapping his fingers around himself, lightly rubbing his head with a practiced thumb.  
  
She turns to look down at him again, her smile dangerous, her eyes glittering. She unhooks her skirt and lets it drop to her feet, the plum underwear from this morning a titillating sight to see if Mulder tilts his head slightly backwards. His chin pointed towards the ceiling, he throws his head back and presses his nose to her entrance and inhales deeply, inciting a long shaky breath from her before she breaks contact in order to step out of her lace panties.  
  
His heart and his dick swell with the prospect. Quietly, unhurriedly, Scully steadies herself by putting her hand on the back of the couch, spreads her legs and steps forward so that Mulder’s head is between her thighs, his hot, eager mouth exactly where she wants him. And he is happy to oblige.   
  
He releases a humming groan against her and starts lapping at her with the knowledge of a man who had de-shelled many a seed, and knows his way around his partner’s body better than anything else, because for years it was his home.  
  
“Mmmulder,” she sighs, in a moaning stutter that makes his dick twitch. He can’t look into her eyes, his mouth is on her cunt and her ass is above his forehead, but he can feel her arousal seep and sweeten on his lips and down his chin.   
  
His hands grab her hips and squeezes her hard, knowing that she’s close, the pressure building. Her legs are starting to shake slightly, her thigh muscles quiver, but her voice is surprisingly firm when she whispers, urgently, demandingly,  
  
“Mulder, touch yourself.”   
  
Lust spreads from his stomach to his groin and he feels his testicles tighten almost painfully as he starts stroking himself, well aware that Scully is watching him play with his ever-hardening length through heavy lids. He enjoys the feeling of his fingers on his dick while he concentrates on her clit, skilfully swirling circles and figures eights over and around the small nub as her breath starts to come out in shuddering bursts, punctuated with low moans.  
  
He rubs himself harder, tugging more firmly, and can feel through the tightening of her legs that Scully is enjoying the view. He needs to time this right. Just a little more and she’ll come and the thrill of it incites him further. He pumps into his hand and starts panting raggedly into her pussy, his desire fuelling hers further. With an age-old knowledge, he plunges his long, investigative middle finger deep inside of her, until he’s knuckle-deep and presses forward gracefully in a “come hither” motion.   
  
He doesn’t need to see her to know her mouth has frozen into the shape of an “O” wide enough to hold his dick. He knows this for a fact, he has empiric evidence, just the kind she likes. He drinks her in hungrily and simultaneously thrusts his burning erection into his hand with abandon now, eager to come for her. His orgasm hits him like a freight train and the groan that erupts from his mouth is agonisingly long and rumbling.   
  
He closes his eyes and feels through bated breath how she kneels next to him. When he opens them again, her eyes are a deep, twinkling blue and staring merrily into his.  
  
“Hey”, she murmurs, and kisses him and the taste of her.  
  
“Hey,” he returns and smiles into her mouth.  
  
She touches his forehead as if searching for a fever and he grins. He wouldn’t be surprised if she were to find evidence of one. He is fucked. He is lovesick. He is undeniably hers.  
  
“Let’s go take a shower,” she suggests and takes him by the hand. He follows her up the stairs, his jeans still unzipped. She is wearing a blouse, blazer, heels and nothing else and he wants to cry appreciatively at the sight, but mostly at the fact that her shampoo and her conditioner are permanently back in the bathroom now. 


	21. Hop On, Scully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. hold my hand 44. puppy love

He stands by the kitchen doorway watching as she struggles to reach the coffee, which has left its current home in the bottom shelf and climbed to the second. It’s too early for her to catch on to the fact that he’s moved it on purpose. He enjoys the way her t-shirt inches up to expose the soft skin on her lower back where he likes to settle his fingers. Or in this particular case, when _his_ shirt inches up so that he can see the sweet swell of her ass peeking out from underneath the faded cotton.  
  
The sun is filtering in through the windows, lighting up the dust specks floating in the air like birthday glitter. He watches her make the coffee and thinks that maybe it is somehow October in June. The radio changes songs to Paul Anka’s _Puppy Love_ and he has an overwhelming urge to ask her to dance, but chuckles and shakes his head instead.   
  
She turns when she hears him, holding a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. Her lips are still swollen from how he suckled on them a few minutes previous, her hair still wild and mussed. He watches her closely as she leisurely studies his bare torso, the grooves on his chest and abdomen, and feels like blushing, still. Again.   
To be under Scully’s careful sexual exploration, when her scrutiny isn’t medical…it’s exhilarating.  
  
She sets the mugs down and extends her hand to him while he closes the gap, pressing her against himself.  
  
“I’ve always been more partial to the Donny Osmond version,” he says and feels her grin against his collarbone.   
  
“Growing up, I was always more partial to Donny Osmond, period,” she admits and he wonders how far her partiality led her towards satisfying her teenage needs. If it was just a couple of daydreams or if there was some exploratory fingers involved. He feels himself get hard at the thought and kisses the top of her head.  
  
They start swaying to the music and he waggles his eyebrows at her suggestively, while offering his feet for her to step on.   
  
“Hop on, Scully.”  
  
She throws her head back and laughs. She will never hear the words again without feeling a joyful surge of desire. Whenever he tells her to get in the car, alone or in front of other people, and uses this particular phrase she will always remember that a few minutes ago he was lying on his back, fully erect, and had said the exact same thing before she had lowered herself on him, gasping, and had ridden him to oblivion.


	22. Couvade Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @medicaldoctordana who patiently, hundreds of years ago, asked for a fic where Mulder was getting sympathy pregnancy symptoms, and then had to kindly remind me about it, because I’m such a shit.

“Honestly, Scully it fits!” Mulder exclaims as he follows a disgruntled and very pregnant Scully into the kitchen. He’s holding up a computer printout like its the Holy Bible of pregnancy facts and starts rattling off symptoms in his familiar slide-show monotone.   
  
“Stomach pain, back pain, indigestion, changes in appetite, weight gain, diarrhea, constipation, headache, cravings, nausea, breast augmentation, insomnia. Also, stiffening of the glutes, generalised aches and pains…”  
  
“Mulder, for the last time, you do not have Couvade Syndrome! It’s not a real medical syndrome and it is psychosomatic at best; which by the way,” she looks at him, her eyebrow quirked, “is your area of expertise.”   
  
She huffs somewhat indignantly as she reaches for the camomile tea and turns to glare at him as she waits for the water to boil. She is no longer going to the basement office, but she starts rattling off the facts to disprove his theory as if his breast growth was their most current X-file.  
  
“First of all, you’ve always been a insomniac. And concerning your digestive system? Your stomach pain, indigestion, weight gain and changes in….regularity, Mulder you’ve been eating all of my food, which is high in fibre because pregnant women tend towards constipation. I’m not changing my cooking to best suit your bowels.”   
  
She scowls at him accusingly, “Also, you’ve been eating all of my chocolate. If binge-eating my snacks and then getting indigestion is sympathy pregnancy then, dammit, you’ve had Couvade’s since 1993.”  
  
He grins at her and shrugs, the point conceded, but not without a last attempt of winning her over.   
  
“But Scully, that’s happened because I’ve had changes in appetite,” he whines, if somewhat jokingly. He steps forward to cup her rounded ass and gives it a slight squeeze.  
  
“I’ve been getting all sorts of cravings,” he murmurs into her ear.   
  
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes but not without a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She returns the favour, lovingly squeezing his left asscheek and remarks with a smirk,  
  
“Ahh…and here’s the mystery of your stiffening glute…” she laughs as his butt muscles twitch under her touch. “It’s been…stimulated,” she discloses softly with a chuckle. “Same goes for your pectorals, which explains the nipple sensitivity.”  
  
He beams at the memory of her hands and teeth all over him and stiffens against her. She licks her lips and  misses the way her breasts would press against his chest when her belly wasn’t in the way. She sighs as she cups his face and pulls him down for a soft kiss.  
  
“All I’m saying Mulder is that you can’t just have sympathy pregnancy and get to do only the fun things. It’s not fair. I’m swallowing horse pills, I’m nauseous, and I’m rubbing oil on my perineum to prevent tearing for when I’m in labour.”  
  
She expects him to grimace or shudder at the thought, but he just strokes her waist where she swells into what she thinks is planet-sized proportions. He stares at his hands tracing the growing contours of her body, fascinated by the person they’ve managed to create together, inside her.  
  
“And all _I’M_ saying Scully is that I sometimes think I can feel the baby inside me too, somehow.”   
  
She softens and watches his fascinated study of her, and can’t hold back a giggle when his curious fingers sneak up and cover her breasts, a cup and a half bigger than when she had first met him.   
  
“Mulder…”  
  
“Scully, you would be shocked and surprised to know what kind of stroking my perineum is familiar with.”   
  
He breathes into her ear and whispers deeply, “But I’ve never used oil. How very kinky of you. I like it.”   
  
The water has boiled but she makes no move to make her tea, enthralled by the brush of his breath against her skin.  
  
“And Scully?” he murmurs and she angles her face so that he can press his lips against her neck as he speaks to her.   
  
“Mmm Mulder?” she asks and relaxes against the cupboard as his thumbs trace over her hardening nipples.  
  
“I’ve seen you swallow much larger things than those horse pills.”   
  
He presses his erection against her with a little more force. “And if I remember correctly, pregnant or not, you have never, ever had a problem with your gag reflex.”  
  
She can hardly believe it when she feels her mouth water at the thought of him inside her mouth, her lips sliding up and down the length of him.  
  
She reaches for his belt. “Get ready, G-man,” she purrs as she slips her hand into his front pocket and strokes his thigh. He closes his eyes and groans slightly.  
  
She pulls out his wallet and taps it gently against his forehead while he blinks his eyes open with disappointed confusion.   
  


“It’s your turn to buy the chocolate.”


	23. Heel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9\. Will you be quiet?! And/Or 26. Help me, I'm stuck.

She would’ve fallen and possibly hurt herself had he not been walking next to her. The sidewalk shifted from concrete to air vent and the heel of her left pump slid through one of the holes with freakish, surgeon-like precision.   
  
He saw how her eyebrows shot up in sterling shock as she toppled backwards, her balance off, and she reached up for anything to stop her from falling. In this particular case, her hands grasped tightly to his tie and shirt, both to which she clung with the hungry despair of those who are plunging backwards and defying gravity through the physics of counterbalance.  
  
He reaches to steady her, one of his hands firmly on her waist, the other where her hip becomes her ass, the contact the most intimate physical thing he’s shared with her since the brush of hands in hospital beds, or the drop of a bathrobe in the semi-darkness of a room in the middle of a rainstorm. Her mouth is frozen open and her voice is reverent and soft when she utters the single syllable he never thought he’d hear escape her mouth:  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
She exhales the word like a college freshman and he can suddenly envision her, all freckles and oversized sweatshirts. Cheap beers and bad dates and the beautiful awkwardness of a girl who is too smart for the boys around her. Way too beautiful for the mullets and the synth pop, but who still didn’t know it yet…perhaps doesn’t know it still.   
  
At any rate, the expletive makes him howl with laughter and utter a disbelieving “Scully!” while he holds her steady, her body still dipped backwards like an accidental tango step, and he does nothing to right her. He shuts his eyes and laughs like he once did with her under the soaking rain. He can see her turn scarlet and glare at him with every ounce of dignity and professionalism she has left.  
  
“Mulder, shut up.”   
  
To which his only reply is to shake his head while he’s righting her, only to laugh harder and more violently when he notices that she has to angle her hip, her high heel wedged so far down the air vent that her right knee is bent with the obvious length difference.   
  
“Dammit Mulder, will you be quiet?!” she hisses at him while people walk past them staring.  
  
Mulder wipes his eyes and nods his head, apologising through choked chuckles. “Sorry, Scully. Yes, let’s go.”  
  
She glowers at him vehemently, all sense of decorum gone. She knows she sounds like a child when she says it, and if she could stomp her stuck foot she would. She is livid, at herself for being so clumsy and at him for attracting even more attention to her obvious embarrassment.  
  
“Help me, I’m stuck.”  
  
His lips quiver with contained amusement, but his glee is soon forgotten when he kneels to help her. She steps out of the sunken shoe and uses his shoulder, now level with her upper thigh, to balance herself, her elegant, stockinged foot hovering in the air.  
  
With some twisting and pulling, he extracts the black pump from the aperture and feels a little like King Arthur extracting a small, sexy Excalibur from the deep stone of Washington D.C.   
  
He’s about to make a glib remark about it to Scully, but as soon as she softly places her other hand on his shoulder so that she is leaning solely on him, he finds himself hushed, steadying her by holding the back of her calf and finding, not for the first time around her, that he is at a loss for words.   
  
She doesn’t break eye-contact with him as he slides the shoe on and he wonders why he feels so strongly like fictional characters who get to kiss the girl in the end. Why, if he always just goes home to a video collection. Scully is no princess, no Cinderella, but this shoe fits like a glove and he never wants to let go of her leg. He is already on his knees, literally and metaphorically, and _what is partnership_ , he wonders, _but this. Exactly this._  
  
She helps him up and they keep walking towards the Hoover Building. He is painfully aware that he can replace the word “partnership” with “love”.  
  
But he can’t think about that just yet. 


	24. Gnaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 98\. “Where are your pants?”

She can feel it happening but she can’t open her mouth to scream. She’s not sure what they are doing, only that the pain between her eyes is blinding. _This isn’t an examination_ , she thinks wildly to herself.   
_  
It’s a vivisection. They’re opening my forehead. They’re taking something out or placing something in. A live animal. Some kind of rodent. A small, sharp-toothed thing that will gnaw at my brain until I go insane. Or die. Hopefully die. I don’t think I can take this much longer.  
_  
She’s drowning now, trying helplessly to inhale, her breaths coming out in gurgling gasps, and she’s not sure if she’s gagging on blood or her own vomit. Blood, probably. She hasn’t been able to keep anything down for days.   
  
The pain is like a shrill wail now, coming in waves over the spot where her cancer is living and pulsing like a foreign creature. Rather than a simple tumour, made solely of herself, the exalted multiplication of cells in her body feels like a gruesome imitation of Christ multiplying bread. This is a communion she has to choke down herself. The doctors say she shouldn’t drink wine because of the treatment but if she’s sick half the time, from swallowing pints of her own blood, she might as well go Catholic on her disease.   
  
Whatever is inside her brow is crawling towards her temples now, underneath her eyelids too. It no longer feels mammalian in nature but sort of like an oil. She thinks of the black virus and imagines it oozing inside her, sleek yet painful like shards of very small glass.   
  
She’s trying to open her eyes, she knows she’s half dreaming but it’s hard, each time it’s more difficult to step out of unconsciousness and she can’t help but think, but _know_ , that she will die in her sleep. But not painlessly, not the good death. She will not go gentle.   
  
The name sounds watery when she tries to say it, but she doesn’t need to. Not really. Mulder is there already. No gun drawn, he knows the devil isn’t lurking in the shadows. The devil is in her, a nasopharengeal mass right under the spot she touches when she crosses herself in prayer.  
  
“Shhh, Scully,” he whispers and she can hear the fear in his voice. She exclaims his name, finally, but all that leaves her mouth is a blurting of blood disguised in a wet sob.  
  
He tenderly wipes her face clean with a damp towel and moves her towards the side of the bed that isn’t stained with rust-coloured blemishes left by those who are dying.   
  
The pain is only a dull ache now and she can feel herself return to normal. She focuses on Mulder who is laying on her bed over the covers, stilling her, comforting her. Her eyelids feel heavy with exhaustion, but she quirks her lips at his grey cotton boxers, his bare knees, his long feet.  
  
“Mulder, where are your pants?”  
  
He doesn’t answer but strokes her hair and presses his lips on the crown of her head. She closes her eyes. She is cold all the time now and can feel the warmth radiating off his body. She doesn’t want to die but if she has to, this is how. This is with whom. She would never do that to him though, he’s been through enough. Too many losses for one man.  
  
“Mulder, get under the covers with me” she sighs and feels waves of comfort overwhelm her as he crawls in and wraps himself around her, cradling her gently in his arms.  
  
 _Please God, don’t let me die tonight. Don’t have him try to wake me in the morning and find out that he can’t._  
  
She drifts back into the darkness and doesn’t know that he’s asking for the same thing.


	25. Out of Left Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 29\. “You said my name in your sleep.”

The baseball diamond is made up of children’s sweatshirts and sweaters marking the bases, the pitcher’s mound non-existent and the distance between it to the home base is left to be devised by the pitchers themselves. 

Mulder is the tallest, so his trench coat is now a makeshift home plate where the umpire would normally be, and they are sitting on it while sipping on cold beers in sweaty bottles. The field has rich grass and is oddly silent. Where there should be a soft rustling of air there is nothing. That buzzing sound is of her own blood rushing through her ears, not of insects. No dragonflies. No grasshoppers. 

The clothes stir gently in the breeze, abandoned by the players, ghost garments of a haunted game. Scully enjoys the warmth of the sun on her skin and reaches in front of her to stroke the blades of grass. She rubs her fingers against the rich dirt and relishes the feeling of being isolated in nature with him. Alone, but in no danger. No mothmen, no flesh-eating insects, no lake monster. 

He takes her hand gently and presses his nose against her fingers, inhaling the smell of summer– of soil and her skin. He trails soft kisses down to her wrist and she closes her eyes, letting him know that he has got her full attention. She allows his hand make his way up her arm and towards her shoulder to softly cup her neck in quiet possessiveness. 

He fondles her breast on his way there and she takes another swallow of her beer, her thirst now of a different nature. She feels him shifting beside her and is lured by the sensation of his now removed tie covering her eyes, being tied into an easy knot behind her head . 

Count to twenty, Scully. I have something to show you.

She smiles at the game, at the desire pooling between her legs, at what sweet prospects the future might bring in this abandoned little place, just for them. She wonders what it is he’s going to show her. If she gets to keep it, wear it, or if maybe she’s simply to wrap her mouth around it. She starts counting, lust coating the numbers with each flick of her tongue, concentrating leisurely on the throbbing inside her.

She hears his absence before she feels it, right after she reaches twenty. She doesn’t need to remove the blindfold to know that there are crows on the field now, cawing ominously. She heeds the hum of electricity, high voltage somewhere, and her want quickly turns to apprehension as she yanks off Mulder’s tie.

He’s nowhere to be seen. The beer bottles are gone. As is the trench coat and the sweaters. She stands like a drunk woman and spins around, her eyes scanning the never-ending field, startled and dismayed. There is nothing but vast plains of grass and the crows laughing and laughing in that uncanny manner that birds have. 

MULDER! she screams.

She feels a warm palm steady her beneath the duvet, covering her hammering heart with soothing fingers. She uses her own to cover them in turn, recognising the bones and sinew of Mulder’s hands like she knows the Lord’s prayer. 

“Shhh, Scully. You said my name in your sleep. I’m here. Shhh.”

She wants to open her eyes and gaze into the half-lit glimmer of his stare in the twilight. She wants to open her eyes and inspect the beautiful lines of his face, the pouting dip of his lower lip. She squeezes her eyelids tighter and tries not to cry. 

If she opens her eyes, all she will see is his absence, the grim silence of questions without answers and all of the things they’ve left unsaid and undone. She tries to imagine that for a minute there it really was Mulder who whispered those words to her, that it wasn’t just her invoking his voice and the memory of his touch. She wishes her science would allow her the fantasy that they were telepathically connected somehow.

She keeps her eyes shut, strokes her swollen belly and talks to William about his missing father instead.


	26. Couvade Syndrome II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Couvade Syndrome
> 
> "Can you write a late term pregnancy fic? One where they have sex so people will finally buy into the idea of pregnancy sex because it is awesome and better. Thank you!"

“I’ll bring home all the chocolate, Scully,” he says as he takes his wallet from her hand. “And I’ll bring enough for the both of us.” He takes her wrist and kisses the palm of her hand, the gesture sweet but the glint in his eye hungry and untamed. He places her hand over the hard tenting in his pants and whispers tentatively, gruffly. “Aren’t we going to spoil our appetites though?”

She squeezes the thick outline of him straining against his jeans and wonders at her body’s rapid response. Despite the pain in her back and her pubic bone, her leg cramps and the insomnia, her pregnancy has upped her sex drive in a way she didn’t know was possible. Her dreams are vivid, colourful and full of sensation. She’s often woken up, tittering over the edge of orgasm, swearing at the impending release and the fact that Mulder hadn’t actually been stroking her into oblivion but actually just snoring gently beside her. 

She is coy when she quirks her lips and her eyebrows. “I’m not particularly hungry, Mulder,” she whispers but she doesn’t believe herself anymore than she believed in UFOs the first day she met him in that basement office. She can tell he doesn’t believe her either and is adamant to make her believe just like he once did back in 1993.

“Pity,” he murmurs and leans in to nuzzle her neck in rhythm to her caressing of his dick. He cups her breast and squeezes delicately, relishing its soft weight, “because I’m starving.”

Her grip on his cock tightens slightly and he inhales, aching against the rough fabric, aching for her touch, her wet heat and his release. She inches closer to him and murmurs softly against his lips before kissing him in the hairpin dip of his lower lip.

“You’ll buy ice-cream too.”

He nods, if not a little frantically, as he feels her middle finger press over his perineum and he catches her lip with his teeth in warning.

“I’ll buy every goddamn flavour, but please let me take you to the bedroom.”

“You mean take me IN the bedroom.” she laughs good-naturedly, using all of the shitty puns he’s been pulling on her the past few months. She releases his erection and takes him firmly by the hand instead. 

“Fuck, Scully.” 

He follows and stares at her ass as she leads him towards the bedroom. She is rounder, softer. Sexy as hell. Gone are the hard edges of stress and cancer and when they have sex he thinks of Titian, of Botticelli, he thinks of the way her flesh feels while he’s gripping her and moans a little at the thought. It’s like having sex with the Birth of Venus, all curves, a wet, salty beauty. It’s like thrusting into a slow, hot summer morning, Sacred and Profane Love.

She sits on the edge of the bed and he helps her out of her leggings, taking her underwear with them and tosses them aside. He kneels the way he knows worshippers do and ends up at face level with her pussy. He stares in reverence as she smiles down at him benignly and spreads her legs wide for him to look at her, glistening and ready and all his. She uses her fingers to spread herself further, an open invitation for his tongue, which now feels parched and ready.

His mouth flies towards her, his tongue spreading her desire towards her clit, where he stops to tease it gently with his lips. He fucks her with hungry laps and burrows his face deeper, enjoying the honey-like texture of her want on his chin and nose. He groans with each of the soft little gasps she utters above him, and the way his forehead presses against her swollen stomach reminds him of that time their foreheads kissed outside his hallway, before any of this was even thought possible.

He releases Scully’s leg, which he has been caressing and unzips his jeans to free his throbbing cock, pulsating in time with his heartbeat, hot and heavy with lust for her. He strokes himself with one hand as he slides a long finger inside of her, and she hisses out a Mulder like a satisfied snake. She’s told him a few times now that he’s got the hands of a pianist, and although he can’t even play the keyboard, he can make her resonate and sing each and every time any of his digits is inside her.

His tongue and finger work in unison, one turning into two until her thighs squeeze against his ears and she tells him to stop.

“I want you to come inside me. I want to come with you inside me” she murmurs in a voice barely recognisable. He doesn’t bother to take his jeans off. She shifts in the bed and makes room for him to spoon her from behind. His jeans just below his knees, he nudges her thighs apart and slides his leg between hers. He cups her ass with both his hand, squeezes and releases, and takes hold of his dick in his hand. She angles herself slightly away from him, leaning forward and he slides in easily, both of them groaning at the feeling. 

One arm over her belly, the other under her, stroking her breast slowly albeit persuasively, he’s pulling out all the way before pushing back inside, making sure she can feel every inch of him drive in and out of her in long, strong thrusts. 

“Harder,” she says and she fucking means it.

He is nothing but obedient and uses his hands to press her against him, his hips moving in an undulating frenzy, her muscles clamping down on him until he feels that his name is pressed tightly against her clenched teeth.

Somewhere between “more” and “Mulder” she comes, and her shuddering, clenching orgasming around his cock is enough to push him over, and he releases her name and his hot seed inside her with one last furious thrust.

He breathes in her smell, listens to her pounding heartbeat and kisses the back of her neck. She twines her hand over his, his palm between their child and her fingers. He smiles at this happiness, once so impossible. 

Scully whispers something, and he leans in to hear what it is. 

“Hmmm…Scully?” he asks and kisses her jawline.

“Cherry García and Karamel Sutra, please,” and he laughs.


	27. Cherry Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue only challenge. The waitress at the diner has a little crush.

“That waitress has the hots for you, Mulder, I’m telling you. That’s the third time she’s refilled your coffee before being even halfway done with it.”  
  
“She didn’t give you more because you’ve hardly even dented yours.”  
  
“That’s because I prefer my coffee drinkable. I don’t know how you’ve been able to swallow that stuff. I’ve seen black oil oozing out of people’s eyes look more appealing.  
  
“You don’t mean that.”  
  
“You’re right, I don’t. But next time I’m choosing the diner. Somewhere where the coffee is drinkable and the waitresses subtle.”  
  
“You’re wrong you know.”  
  
“About the waitress finding you attractive? I’m not wrong.”  
  
“You are. It’s not me she has the hots for. It’s you.”

  
“Mulder, that’s absurd. She hasn’t even looked in my direction.”  
  
“That’s exactly it, Scully. She saw you when we came in, nearly dropped her tray, and now comes back continuously to give me refills I don’t need.”  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
“She won’t look at you because she _can’t_ look at you. She can’t make eye-contact, she’s blushing like the sun’s out, and it has nothing to do with me.”  
  
“I cannot believe you have a degree from Oxford in human psychology. This is absolute hogwash.”  
  
“She looks at your cup to see if you need a refill and you don’t, so she can’t start a conversation. You’ve got her all tongue-tied, Scully, and hot and bothered.”  
  
“Mulder!”  
  
“It’s true! I can tell. My bet is that she’s been working up the courage to say something to you but hasn’t figured out what yet. I think she will next time around.”  
  
“I swear to God–”  
  
“Another re-fill? Oh, ma’am, you haven’t touched your coffee! Could I bring you something else? Tea?A slice of cherry pie? It’s delicious….on the house?  
  
“I–”  
  
“On the house, Scully. Thank you, yes. That sounds wonderful.”  
  
“Great! Fantastic! I’ll be right back.”  
  
“….”  
  
“Scully?”  
  
“Shut up, Mulder.”  
  
“She’s practically skipping towards the kitchen, you know.  _Cherry pie_ , Scully. The things my Oxford degree could tell you about that.”

“Mulder, don’t think I’m sharing my pie with you.”  
  
“Scully, you wound me. There’s nothing I like more than your cherry pie".


	28. Funeral

The first time Mulder died, he had looked like roadkill. A full-grown fox struck dead the moment the headlights hit its eyes, flown unnaturally, only to land on the side of an abandoned road in the inky night. Bruising. Stiffening.  
  
Scully looks at Mulder now and isn’t sure if it’s easier or more difficult to accept his death. He hadn’t stayed dead when they were being botanically digested, he hadn’t stayed dead when he had actually died. But he is now. Dead.  
  
He doesn’t look like roadkill this time. He is like a stillborn, full of possibility, and the gut-wrench of a loss is like William’s, except nothing like it. She wishes she had the words. Mulder would've had the words and she's not surprised that he took them with him. It feels like he took everything with him. She wonders if this is what it feels like to want to die.   
  
She briefly senses Skinner placing a warm hand on her shoulder, feels how he squeezes just tightly enough, and thinks back on the time when Mulder told her that their boss was in fiercely in love with her, not long after he had admitted to this feeling himself. She had refuted and laughed off the idea then, but trust Mulder to always have a deeper understanding of the truth.  
  
She feels the sweet, protective grip of Skinner’s fingertips tighten, and because Mulder is no longer there, decides not to argue with the memory of him. Because maybe he’s right. Maybe Skinner does love her, and what would happen if she let him touch her? If she moved Skinner's hand from her shoulder towards her breast. Would he be able to fuck her into oblivion? Fuck Mulder’s death right out of her, imake her orgasm into wanting to live? If she was able to come, would it feel like dying? Would it be an ascension or a reckoning? Would it be akin to birthing grief? What would that be like? Because right now the loss of him inside her feels like a pregnancy. She is laden, bloated. Full of mortality.  
  
Her eyelashes flutter and she shuts her eyes. She thinks back on how he used to fiddle with the radio as an excuse to close the distance between them, in order to stroke her thigh. She remembers his failed attempt at brewing his own beer, and how fermentation became a taboo word in their household. The pleasure it gave him to watch the sheets they'd made love on hanging under the blue, flapping gently in the summer breeze. She tries to invoke the way he murmured her name into her hair in the mornings, in the evenings, in the middle of the night. His tender amusement at her shoe-size. The way he looked at her when she wore a dress. The manner in which he walked towards her when she’d take off said dress. The cups of coffee, the flat tires, the squabbling, the messy crossword puzzles. _Again_ , she thinks. _Give me. I beg. I want. I want it again. Everything. Again._  
  
She doesn’t move, her body doesn't protest, when Skinner’s hand shifts to her lower back. 


End file.
